


to ease the pain of idleness in every grain of sand

by janie_tangerine



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Apologies, Droughtjoy 2017, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Jon Snow knows something, Missing Scene, sand castles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-25
Updated: 2017-11-25
Packaged: 2019-02-06 18:37:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12823626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/janie_tangerine/pseuds/janie_tangerine
Summary: “I understand,” Jon says. “I understand even too well.”He kneels down in the sand, too. He’s taken off his doublet, Theon notices – he only has breeches, shoes and a shirt now.“This is nice,” he says. “I don’t think I’ve ever been at sea like this.”“I haven’t been since I lived in Pyke,” Theon whispers, sitting down with his legs curled on the side. Maybe Jon isn’t going to notice how his feet look, like this.Jon looks up at him, and he seems sad, and Theon just hopes he doesn’t say anything along the lines of, and how did that feel like, because then he’s going to think about his sister and his family and maybe he built Winterfell because he wanted to think of anything but Pyke and maybe because it was more of a home than Pyke ever could be –“Do you need any help with the back?” Jon asks instead.





	to ease the pain of idleness in every grain of sand

**Author's Note:**

> Written this summer for the Droughtjoy2017 challenge on tumblr for the prompt, _Theon builds a sand castle of Winterfell_ , which I decided needed Jon co-starring and I should have reposted it ages ago so here we go. Nothing belongs to me, ESPECIALLY this goddamned show that I have to fix every other moment, set in between 7x04 and 7x05. Title from bob dylan, sort of because I mashed two different lines from the same song but never mind that. /o\

The beach is empty.

Of course it is.

The queen flew off with her dragon a while ago, Jon Snow hasn’t come back down from Dragonstone – and why should he? – and no one else stayed.

Of course they didn’t. They were his sister’s men before his, and of course they all think he was a coward for leaving her, as if he could have done anything other than getting the both of them killed.

Theon sighs and drops sitting down on the shore. He might as well. He doesn’t feel like going back inside the castle, he doesn’t feel like answering the same questions over and over and sure as the seven hells he doesn’t want to explain anyone  _why_  he jumped. Maybe someone would understand if he said,  _I thought I was back in Winterfell_ , but he has a feeling they would not.

It’s been such a long time since he sat on a beach and just stared at the sea, though.

Hell, maybe he hasn’t done it since he was nine.

He kicks off his shoes, which are wet and uncomfortable and  _cold_ , purposefully tries to  _not_  look at the state of his feet and lets the water touch them. It feels nice. It feels  _really_  nice, and he wishes he could just concentrate on  _that_ , but he looks at the sun touching the waves. It’s not a  _hot_  sun. It doesn’t make it look like it’s on fire.

It’s a good thing.

He doesn’t know what the hell he’s going to do now. What he knows is that if he keeps on doing this he’ll start feeling guilty  _again_ , and he won’t manage to think of anything but his sister’s face as she stared at him on the other side of the ship and at his uncle’s manic grin that only promised hurt, hurt and  _more hurt_  –

He wraps his fist around a handful of sand. It’s soft. Very soft. There are some pebbles and stones, too, but it’s just – soft, and it feels nice to touch it, and it’s a fairly decent distraction for now, and so he just looks down at it and at how his feet leave imprints that get washed with every gentle motion of the tide.

If only it was so easy to wipe out mistakes, he thinks, and moves on to his knees.

He lets his handful fall to the ground again – the water washes it away a moment later.

His clothes are getting  _really_  wet, though, even if at least  _here_  the water is warm.

He moves back, a bit, enough that he’s on drier sand, but close enough to the part that’s constantly in contact with the sea.

He doesn’t know he’s grabbed a fair amount and ran his hand over it once, twice, thrice, to make it smoother, until he has a fairly large rectangular shape in front of his eyes. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, and it feels ridiculous to  _build things in the sand_  like he used to when he was young and his father still hadn’t thought rebelling was a good choice, and he doesn’t know  _what_  he even should attempt to do, but his hands are working without his brain’s direct permission and he needs a distraction, so he just goes with it.

He doesn’t realize that he’s building fucking  _Winterfell_  until he’s halfway through it and has managed to shape the bulk of it in a similar way, with the tallest tower standing right over it.

For a moment, he considers kicking it down and heading back into the castle, but then he thinks,  _and who’s even going to see me doing this_?

No one, because no one’s coming down and no one’s caring about what he’s doing, and if anyone actually did, well, could their opinion of him get any lower?

He moves on to the next set of towers. Then to the ramparts from which he and Sansa jumped, then to the main gate – the sand really is soft, and it yields easily to his touch, at least  _something_  does.

By the time he’s almost, it’s – actually not  _bad_. It definitely is recognizable. He only lacks the part on the back, which he should try and mold now, but –

He also doesn’t know if it’s pathetic or sad or useless or hypocritical or all of them together. He kind of really wants to kick it down because really,  _why_  did he even do it, and then –

“Doesn’t that look like the real thing,” Jon says from behind him, and Theon thinks he should take his chance and just drown himself right the hell now before he dies of further embarrassment.

The only reason why he doesn’t do it is that Jon sounds melancholic and not like he’s mocking him.

“I don’t know what the hell I was doing,” he admits.

“I think I have an idea,” Jon sighs. “By the way, I’m sorry.”

“… You’re  _what_?”

Jon shrugs. “I didn’t even – I wasn’t really thinking before. Sansa  _did_ talk to me. And I just – I knew Robb well enough that I can’t tell myself that he’d have wanted you dead. Not after you did all you could to make up for betraying him, and anyway – it was  _him_  you betrayed, I guess. Not  _me_. I had no right.”

“Jon, you had more than enough –”

“No, I did not. And I have a feeling that the one reason you’re doing this is – is that you want to be back as much as  _I_  do. Never mind – this is how it  _used_  to look like, isn’t it?”

“I just – I couldn’t bear to do it otherwise.”

“I understand,” Jon says. “I understand even too well.”

He kneels down in the sand, too. He’s taken off his doublet, Theon notices – he only has breeches, shoes and a shirt now.

“This is nice,” he says. “I don’t think I’ve ever been at sea like  _this_.”

“I haven’t been since I lived in Pyke,” Theon whispers, sitting down with his legs curled on the side. Maybe Jon isn’t going to notice how his feet look, like  _this_.

Jon looks up at him, and he seems  _sad_ , and Theon just hopes he doesn’t say anything along the lines of,  _and how did that feel like_ , because then he’s going to think about his sister and his family and maybe he built Winterfell because he wanted to think of  _anything_  but Pyke and maybe because it was more of a home than Pyke ever could be –

“Do you need any help with the back?” Jon asks instead.

And he looks dead serious.

And he just said he’s never just  _been on a beach_  like this, and Theon kind of wants to cry but doesn’t, and thinks,  _what the hell would Robb think of this_ , and then he decides he wouldn’t have hated it. He always talked about wanting to see the sea, for real, and not from a port like in White Harbor, and Theon’s fairly sure he never had a bloody chance to.

He wipes a stray tear.

“Maybe I do,” he concedes, and when Jon smiles a small, wistful grin he thinks he smiles back or at least he feels like he just has, and as Jon’s whole hands reach up and start shaping another tower so very carefully, he decides that maybe it wasn’t such a pathetic thing to do, and maybe –

Maybe he won’t bother tearing it down when they’re done.

 

End.


End file.
